More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. ’ ‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of his hostess than by what she had said.
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